You Make The Call
You guys remember those old stupid NFL commercials right? Great! Let’s move on.
Well, just in case you don’t, they were ads they used to run during games where they would show you a play and let you assume the role of the referee and try to predict the outcome (or in the case of Ed Hochuli, tear telephone books in half with your mind).
So I figured I would roll through a couple of highlights from my Sunday and let you guys try and figure out what actually happened and what I wish had happened instead.
10 AM
I’m at my baseball game with my girlfriend and my dog. I manage to hit for the cycle in the first inning. I’m playing flawless defense at 1B and we’re up by 42 in the 4th when a passing ice cream truck experiences a Speed-style dilemma and must immediately unload all of it’s Chaco Taco’s (for free) or else Dennis Hopper detonates the bomb.
Or…
I’m at my baseball game with my girlfriend and my dog. I go 0-1 as I just miss a first pitch fastball I should have lined back into the pitcher’s face and ground out to the SS instead. I get yanked from the game because we are getting slaughtered and it doesn’t even look like my spot in the order is going to come up again (and this is just as my grandparents arrive to see one of my games for the very first time). We manage to hang around and my spot in the order comes up two more times and the only ice cream truck I encounter is blasting mariachi music and has bullet holes in it as a result of it only operating in the greater Maywood area.
3 PM
It’s about midway through the second period of the Hawks/Wings game and we’re up big and cruising toward a crucial series tying win. Cristobal Huet is earning every single cent of the 5.625 million we’re paying him this year and stopping every single shot the Wings throw at him, especially the limp wristed one the Johan Franzen flips toward the goal from 40 feet out with 20 seconds left in the first period. I totally dig his creepy playoff neard and don’t even mind that he used to have a Liam Neeson in Batman Begins style samurai ponytail.
Or…
I want to stab Cristobal Huet in the fact with a machete made out of various metal alloys, AIDS and (an even more lethal substance) pubic hair from the crotch of Daisy of Love.
6 PM
I’m hanging out at my brother’s house and eating delicious meat he’s prepared with Coca Cola barbeque sauce he made specially for his cookout. We’re talking and drinking with my sister and all of his friends I don’t get to hang out with nearly enough. After that I bike over to my friend Grant’s house to partake in this taco meat he actually has shipped to him from Texas and has been telling me about for years. We sit on the porch with his wife Heather, his 5 month-old daughter Emmy and all of the other dudes from my baseball team stuffing our faces until Rachel and I ride home hand in hand singing Toto songs to each other the whole way.
Or…
I’m passed out face down in my bed with Seinfeld DVD’s playing in the background as a result of only getting 4 hours of sleep between the time I got home from work last night and the time I had to get up to head to said slaughter ruling. I awake to the sound of my (now drunken) girlfriend returning home with breath that smells like Christian Slater and my stomach is growling and bereft of any sort of meat whatsoever. I go to the bathroom and notice that not only did I do some more awesome work on my farmer’s tan but I also have sweet wristband lines on my arm now as well.
11 PM
I’m spending loads of quality time with my girlfriend because it’s one of the truly rare instances where she doesn’t have to get up at the buttcrack to bust her ass at work all day. We walk Willis around the boulevard all night without him trying to eat any plastic wrappers, grass clippings or dead birds and manage to avoid all of the weird “You have a dog? I have a dog! Let’s talk about them for hours!” cult people that always seem to be lurking in our neighborhood. We sit on the front porch eating ice cream and playing Your Car/My Car until we both decide to call it a night and drift off peacefully to sleep together in the spoon position.
Or…
Rachel has already been asleep for an hour or so after making it through the first 4 minutes of Shaun of the Dead. I’m sitting in the living room with the laptop typing out this nonsense while the dog keeps trying to eat my socks (which are still currently on my feet) and Melby is pausing various scenes in Get Smart so that he can try to see Anne Hathaway in her underpants.
Anyways, tomorrow is Memorial Day and I hope you guys all have awesome plans to go out and stuff your faces (because seriously, what else is America about if not overeating and the subsequent shame that immediately follows it?). If the weather holds up I think we’re talking about grilling, making some smores and busting out the DVD projector so that we can watch Indiana Jones movies in the backyard.
And this is probably going to be the most important link I ever post on this site. It is every single line Tracy Jordan said on Season Three of 30 Rock. Feel free to read them all and enjoy the hilarity totally out of context or you can just wait until I post them all individually on Twitter instead.
